This was the second of two poems I wrote about 9/11. (the other, here)
Again, I was conflicted about whether to share this, but I felt I couldn't share one without the other. This poem deals more with the aftermath of 9/11 and how the event became symbolic. But the poem also discusses the inner conflict I felt as a creative trying to use art to respond to atrocity - because how can it? - while also making sure I didn't aestheticise the events or harm the memory of its victims.
Wednesday’s Children
by Bethany Frith
The sky scraped the ground
And left a skyline gaping;
An open wound
To mark the absence –
A deeper shadow
Than cast by any building.
Two towers razed to zero;
One symbol bequeathed another
Beyond silver and gold,
Iron and steel,
Never to be broken by stick or stone,
To be hurt only, perhaps, by words.
For we are the art makers
Masquerading as caretakers
Of voices from beyond the pavement,
Crying through the lock:
‘Are you there?’
‘Are you there?’
Destined to repeat
The fall and never land,
Tuesday’s children full of grace:
When they were up, they were up
And when they were down, they were down.
And when they were only half way up
They will never be up nor down.
For Wednesday’s children full of woe
Captured the image.
It inspired words
Some coming to rest here:
On lines which cannot bear their weight.
Because what story can we tell
When there is no happy ending?
Sugar-coat the rubble
Or tack on a moral?
Begin again
Or leave it here?
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